Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
“What do you think you’ll order?” she asks, her gaze focusing on me again. Her eyes are wide and guileless; I love how open she is with her emotions, and I’m hungry for more.
“I’ll have to try what you like,” I say. “Chocolate and peanut butter together is a very American combination.”
She cocks her head at me. “Oh? What would you have back home in England?”
“Mr. Whippy.”
“What?”
I shake my head. I should’ve known she wouldn’t get the reference. “It’s an ice cream that we used to have at the seaside when I was a boy. I’m sure your chocolate-and-peanut-butter combo will be much sweeter.”
In truth, I don’t like overly sweet things. Food is fuel, and I care more about staying physically fit than treating myself to unhealthy options. My self-control has never been remotely tempted by dessert before, but now, I’m curious to experience the flavors that make Abigail feel such sinful pleasure.
“Did you go to the beach a lot when you were growing up?” she asks as we wait to cross the street, her clear blue gaze swinging back to mine in the moment of stillness. “My hometown, Georgetown, is just an hour and a half drive away from Charleston. We spent all of our free time on the beach when I was little.”
“The North Sea is a bit colder than the southern Atlantic,” I reply in traditional British understatement. “It’s a very different experience to the South Carolina coast. I never cared for it much.”
“I’d love to see it one day.” She sighs the words, and that dreamy expression softens her gaze again. “I’m fascinated by Whitby. Have you ever been?”
I blink at her in surprise. Whitby was a staple day out during my childhood, and just thinking about the dreary place fills my memories with scents of briny sea and newspaper-wrapped fish and chips. “Many times. How do you know about Whitby?”
She cocks a brow at me, as though the answer is obvious. “The ruined abbey was the inspiration for Dracula. All of the pictures I’ve seen online are breathtaking.”
I’m about to rebut that the pictures don’t show how cold, windy, and rainy it is, but I’m too entranced by her innocent enthusiasm to ruin her fantasies about the seaside town.
“I shouldn’t be surprised that you like Dracula,” I say instead.
I’m starting to sense a darker theme to the fiction she prefers. I already know that she’s perfect for me, and I’m relishing each new revelation about her forbidden desires.
The crossing light turns green, and we finish walking the short distance to the dessert bar.
“I have to admit that I was surprised when you walked into the café with a copy of Addie LaRue,” she says. “What made you pick up the book?”
“It’s a bestseller, isn’t it?” I say smoothly, covering the strange, disconcerting sensation that the pavement just dropped two feet beneath my next step.
Why didn’t I think that she might ask me this?
I manage a casual shrug. “I was browsing the bookstore, and I thought the premise sounded interesting.”
We arrive at Delia’s Dessert Bar, so I open the door and gesture for her to enter. It’s warm now that the storm has broken, and there’s a sizeable queue of overheated tourists waiting to buy ice cream. There are too many people ahead of us for me to distract her by placing an order immediately.
She’s still looking at me with that clear, keen blue gaze. She’s completely open to me, but the sense that she’s peering deeper than my mask makes my chest tighten.
Anxiety?
I definitely don’t like this particular feeling.
“Do you usually read fiction?” she asks. “For some reason, I would’ve pictured you with some politician’s autobiography in your hand instead of Addie LaRue.”
I shake my head and don’t bother to hide the slight twist of distaste that curls my lip. “You’re right, I usually prefer nonfiction. But I’m not interested in other people’s self-indulgent ramblings. I like theoretical physics, particularly astrophysics.”
Her smile takes on a rueful tilt. “Science isn’t my strong suit,” she says, as though it’s an admission of a personal failing. “I’ve always been more into the arts.”
She sees the natural world in a way that I’ve never considered before, and she captures the darkest aspects of human nature in the stunning paintings that she keeps hidden in her closet. I’m in awe of her art, but she’s not ready to hear that yet.
“I like understanding how things work,” I explain instead. “Knowledge is power. But I’m starting to appreciate that the arts have their own power too.”
Our gazes are locked, and her cheeks flush my favorite shade of pink. It’s the ideal complement to the stunning aquatic blue shade of her eyes. The soft, rosy hue is enhanced by the cool purple tones of her amethyst curl. She’s completely beguiling and utterly perfect.